Murder on the Lake (24 page)

Ironically,
it appears that this would not have been sufficient to see Skelgill despatched
for gardening leave.  Indeed, the Chief had already made allowances for
Skelgill’s involvement on the Sunday night, and had overruled potential
objections on the grounds of his valuable insider’s perspective.  The
killer blow, so to speak, evidently relates to events that took place yesterday
in London’s Covent Garden.  Skelgill had defended his actions in knocking
out the street thief as a split-second decision that concerned his own
self-defence and the protection of the female being robbed.  On the whole,
the Chief had accepted this point of view.  What she could not accept,
however, nor could Skelgill so easily deny, was the photograph of Skelgill
taken
inside
the restaurant, showing him being spoon-fed at close
(indeed intimate) quarters by Angela Cutting – who, just like Dr Gerald
Bond, is a potential suspect in the case.  No matter how much Skelgill had
protested, it is a fact that the camera never lies – it just doesn’t tell
the whole truth.  As for how the Chief had become aware of this
photograph, Skelgill was not to learn – although she showed it to him on
her tablet, and he was able to discern its source as a notorious gossip website
that masquerades as a purveyor of news that is in the public interest. 
(If there is any consolation in this for Skelgill, it is that the image was not
the
most compromising of yesterday’s brief moments that might have been
captured upon film.)

‘But DI
Smart, Guv – it won’t wash – never mind we don’t want to work with
him.’  DS Leyton despairingly breaks the silence that has cloaked the
office like the enfolding darkness beyond the window.  ‘His whole system
depends on snouts and grasses, Guv.’

DS
Jones now joins in the fray.

‘He’ll
never work this one out, Guv.  He’s not got the patience.’

Skelgill
stares at her with surprise.  On another occasion, this observation would
clearly merit some further explanation – for even Skelgill would admit
that, in his personal interactions, he is not renowned for this desirable human
quality.  But what DS Jones has perceived, of course, is that Skelgill
does
possess an immense inner patience, one that no fisherman (and perhaps
detective) can succeed without.  But now he shrugs off her oblique
compliment and – in his typically sardonic fashion, makes a virtue out of
necessity.

‘Never
mind, chaps, I might be buying you all drinks on Friday night.’

DS
Leyton scowls.

‘Not
if DI Smart has anything to do with it, Guv.’

‘I
wasn’t thinking of Smart.’  Skelgill forces a somewhat crooked grin. 
‘I’ve got two full days to catch a twenty-five pound pike and save myself a
grand.’

Having
rowed a good two miles from his temporary berth at the north end of
Derwentwater, and despite there being half the distance again still to cover to
reach his intended destination, Skelgill has been unable to pass Grisholm
without coming ashore.

He
ties his boat to the same mooring post as before: a clove hitch, a double half hitch,
and an overhand knot.  The conditions are considerably more benign than
during his last visit, and indeed are forecast to improve further, as the ridge
of high pressure that was responsible for yesterday’s easterly in Scotland
drifts north-west across the British Isles, drawing the benign bulk of the
anticyclone from the continent.  His boat rocks gently against the wooden
pier, and he steps easily ashore onto the pontoon.

He can
see at a glance that the planked boathouse is empty; although he enters and
replaces on its brackets the boat hook he had employed to prod for his presumed
sunken craft.  He stands and regards it now, no doubt running over in his
mind the possibilities that might pertain to Sunday night’s events.  Then
he laughs, and cuffs himself with the heel of his hand upon his forehead. 
He returns to where the boat is moored, kneels down, and hooks out his old
khaki rucksack; it contains his mobile phone and various other essential
personal possessions, such as a
Kelly Kettle
and the wherewithal to make
tea.

The
short path that winds through the wood must seem familiar, although it was at
dusk and then in darkness that he used it previously (apart from Monday
morning, when he was somewhat under the weather).  He takes his time,
walking soundlessly over the mulched earth, alert for signs of life.  The
dense rhododendron shrub layer, however, affords little lateral vision, and he
is restricted to watching the path ahead, and the oaks above, still hanging on
to a good many russet autumn leaves, despite the best efforts of the
storm.  He pauses, hearing a sound, and then waits motionlessly as a
little passel of Long-tailed Tits, already coalesced into their wintering
flock, bob across the gap a few yards from him, one at a time, like candy floss
in miniature, pink-and-white-and-black balls of fluff on sticks, each taking
their chance, running the gauntlet of what must be a Sparrowhawk’s feeding
corridor.  He counts and reaches ten – probably a single family
party – and no more, as the soft purring contact calls fade and the flock
flits away on its incessant quest for food.  He might reflect that, were
he to come back here in spring, how many would have survived through the
winter: two, or three perhaps?

Moving
on himself, he quickly gains the edge of the clearing in which stands Grisholm
Hall.  There is a path that leads up to the main door, but Skelgill cuts
across the damp mossy lawn and makes a beeline for the nearest corner of the
property.   From here he follows the perimeter of the building, skirting
the wing and turning back into the courtyard, around which the rear of the hall
makes a u-shape.  For a minute he surveys the ungainly edifice: the
windows along the first floor are those of the landing and corridors that serve
the bedroom wings.  At the end of each of these, on the ground floor,
there is a fire exit, and also on this level the likes of the library and
billiards room.  The kitchen is positioned in the central block; it has a
door set on one side and two large sash windows.  Skelgill aims directly
for the furthest of these from the door.  Pausing to tighten the straps of
his rucksack, he clambers nimbly onto the sandstone sill and, bracing himself in
rock-climbing fashion against the stone jambs, stands upright.  He leans
back to check briefly through the pane at his midriff, and then reaches above
his head.  Now his purpose becomes clear, for there is a half-inch gap
between the top of the upper sash and the frame.  He slides his fingers
into this space, and tugs.  Nothing happens, though a few brittle flakes
of paint falling cause him to shy momentarily.  With his arms almost fully
extended, he has little muscle leverage to bring to bear.  Now he tightens
his grip with his thumbs, and performs a little hop.  The sudden transfer
of weight does the trick: with a squeal of protest the sash slides down about
eighteen inches and, with a second sharp manoeuvre, he pulls and then pushes it
to waist level.  On Monday morning he might have been the worse for wear,
but he still had sufficient wits about him to notice that the rather tired old
window lacks a sash lock.

His
route now takes him via a drainer onto the stone flagged floor of the kitchen,
with a resounding clump of his boots.  He stands for a moment, as though
listening to the echo as it scouts about the house and returns with nothing to
report.  Apart from the obvious absence of any craft at the landing stage,
he knows that there are no imminent bookings for the property, and that the
agents have been instructed not to send in their cleaners until the police have
cleared up their side of the case.  So he can be confident that, small
mammals excepted, he is alone.

He
might be expected now to head directly upstairs and perform a thorough search
of the bedrooms – most notably those of Rich Buckley and Bella
Mandrake.  He does indeed walk through to the central hallway, whence the
main staircase leads to these chambers, but instead he does a rather curious
thing.  To one side of the chief entrance is an alcove used as a kind of
robing area.  Presumably provided for the benefit of guests, there are half
a dozen pairs of partly perished green rubber wellingtons, a vase of furled
golf umbrellas, and a series of old coats bunched together on a row of hooks
– indeed among them is the long fawn mackintosh that Lucy Hecate must
have borrowed when she went out to signal for help.  Skelgill loosens one
strap of his rucksack and swings it to the ground.  Then he sorts through
the coats and selects a weathered
Barbour
that is not so different in
appearance from his own rather more scale-spangled version that lies in the bow
of his boat.  And now, apparently suitably attired, he backs against the
front door and closes his eyes.

After
a few seconds he opens them and walks across the hall in the direction of the
drawing room.  One of the double doors is ajar and he squeezes through the
gap.  Now he stands still and closes his eyes again.  After a short
while he reopens his eyes, takes off the jacket, and hangs it on the back of a
nearby Windsor chair.  Then he strides across the room and takes a seat on
one of the sofas, beside the fireplace.  He leans forward, elbows on
knees, chin cupped in upturned hands, and remains deep in thought for some minutes. 
At intervals he turns to face various parts of the room, nodding his head as
though he is acknowledging the invisible actors in whatever little scene is
playing out.  While the casual observer would be excused for thinking
these are the actions of a madman, of course, what he is actually doing is
retracing in his mind the events – as best he can recollect – of
Sunday night.

This peculiar
pantomime does not end here.  Employing the same method – move,
stop, close eyes, ponder, open eyes, move on – he returns to the hall,
ascends to Rich Buckley’s bedroom, descends to the drawing room, leaves the
drawing room, pretends to exit the house and then re-enter by the locked main
door, re-visits the drawing room, departs for the dining room and takes a seat
at the empty table (where he has all manner of silent conversations with
non-existent fellow diners and servers), returns once again to the drawing
room, plays a game of invisible
Scrabble
(on this occasion allowing
himself a triumphant fist-pump when he lays out his killer word,
bumfit
),
and – finally – he goes up to ‘his’ bedroom, and indeed through all
the motions that he can evidently recall – including actually
using
the toilet and, from a prone position on the bed, staring at the empty candlestick,
out of reach on the occasional table beside the door, before closing his eyes
for a final time.

Just
when it seems he might genuinely have nodded off, his eyes spring open, he springs
off the bed, and the springs emit a creak of relief.  At apparently no
time during this performance has he paid any attention to the detail of his
surroundings.  And now he trots downstairs, collects the
Barbour
from the drawing room, replaces it (rather reluctantly) upon its peg, slings
his rucksack on one shoulder, and strides through into the kitchen.  He vaults
onto the drainer, clambers out of the open window, and hauls the upper sash
back into place, leaving the same half-inch gap as before.  He bounds down
into the paved courtyard and, checking his watch, sets off at a jog back
towards the jetty.

Arriving
at the double, he skids to what looks like a surprised halt – but this is
due to the unexpectedly greasy boardwalk, and not the fact that his boat has
gone – for this time,
it is exactly how he left it.
 He
unties the painter and jumps aboard, his momentum transferring to the craft and
causing it to float gently away from the pier.  He does not, however,
immediately take up his oars.  Instead, he unfastens a pocket of his
rucksack and extracts a small notebook with a pencil held in a band at one side. 
Flipping this open to a marked page, he stares for a moment at its
contents.  Beneath the word ‘Grisholm’ is a list, numbered one to
ten.  Against each number is a name.  Number one is Rich Buckley. 
Number two is Bella Mandrake.  And so on, through the members of the
retreat, down to number ten, which is marked
D.Skelgill!!!
– and which
appears to have been added as an afterthought.  Numbers one, two and ten
are crossed through.  Skelgill tugs the pencil from its holder and –
as if out of superstition as much as expedient – licks the tip. 
Then he scores out two more names.

*

‘Ah,
Daniel – I was beginning to think you were enjoying too much the
fishing.’

Skelgill
chuckles.

‘Hans,
it would be a nice problem to have.’

The
older man grins sagely without revealing his teeth.  Soon to reach the age
of seventy, though looking exceedingly robust, he is of medium height, shorter
than Skelgill, though stockier, with close-cropped grey hair, a pinkish
complexion, wide-set heavy-lidded pale blue eyes with fair lashes and brows, a
broad-tipped nose and protruding lips.  This is Dr Hans Sinisalu, an
Estonian of Russian parentage, erstwhile Professor of Toxicology at the
University of Tartu, Estonia.  Having built his reputation on Baltic soil during
the Soviet era, the lifting of the Iron Curtain found his specialist knowledge
of the adverse effects of chemicals upon human beings to be in global
demand.  He travelled widely, working in Africa, Australia, the Far East
and North and South America, before finally settling in the United Kingdom,
where he was retained as a consultant to the British police, and appeared in
many high-profile trials as an expert witness.  Coincidentally a lifelong
fisherman, a chance remark during a telephone conversation some ten years ago
with the then Detective
Sergeant
Skelgill led to the discovery of their
shared passion: most notably for
Esox lucius
(to use the lingua franca)
– pike in English or
haug
in Eesti.  It is Estonia’s most
widespread species of fish, and one that, unlike in Britain, appears commonly on
menus.  A conversation about this creature led to an invitation to fish in
the Lakes that was in due course taken up and – to cut short a long story
– eventually to the venerable academic choosing Borrowdale in Cumbria for
the place of his retirement.  Here he resides contentedly with his wife
– a former zoologist of some eminence – in a small cottage,
surrounded by its own grounds and with its own landing stage, in a secluded
corner of Derwentwater.

‘Come
inside, Daniel – you look tired, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

Skelgill
grins.

‘I
love the way you Ruskies call a spade a spade.’

‘I am
Estonian, Daniel, and proud of it.’

Skelgill
stops for a moment, and cocks his head on one side.

‘Didn’t
we just play you at football?’

‘You
did – and you lost – although we “Ruskies” are not known for our
gloating.  It is our austere upbringing.’

The
professor beckons to Skelgill and leads the way through the interior of the
stone cottage.  It has been tastefully converted to admit modern
conveniences, such as central heating and a fitted kitchen, whilst retaining
its original seventeenth century charm.  There are exposed oak beams
barely above head height, and walls of geometrically laid Lakeland slate. 
They enter a comfortable lounge, where stone flags give way to a deep-pile
carpet, and from a log fire in a great stone hearth emanates the pungent scent
of pine resin.  The room has been extended, and a pair of French doors and
their adjacent picture windows afford a magnificent view down to the lake,
where Skelgill’s boat can be seen moored at the little landing stage.  A couple
of wicker armchairs face this view, angled slightly towards one another, with a
low oak table between them.  Upon this is evidently laid a meal of some
sort, beneath a square of fresh white linen.

‘Annika
has a yoga class in Keswick – she sends her best regards – she says
she is sorry she will not be here to cook
verivorstid
– but she
has prepared a cold lunch for us.’

Skelgill
lowers himself into the seat as indicated, while the professor removes the
cloth from the food: a selection of open-face sandwiches on thinly sliced black
rye and white breads, a mixture of fishes and meats garnished with sliced
cucumber, pickles and tomato.